


The Crownless, Again

by vikkyleigh



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, M/M, The Major Character Death is in the other timeline don't worry, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, spoilers through 160
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23860330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vikkyleigh/pseuds/vikkyleigh
Summary: For a moment, Martin really thought he'd somehow killed him.
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 36
Kudos: 261





	1. Chapter 1

MARTIN POV

For a moment, Martin really thought he’d somehow killed him.

Jon had been in the process of gearing up for a proper lecture about referencing habits, somehow both one that Martin had heard a million times and yet had no idea he was doing incorrectly until this very moment, when his voice cut off with a gurgle.

His face went slack, his eyes rolling slightly back, and Martin had just enough time to picture the headline, unqualified archival assistant somehow gives his unfairly attractive dickhead of a boss a stroke via his own incompetence, before instinct kicked in and he darted forward to catch Jon before his head could connect with the edge of the desk.

He shouted for Tim and Sasha, supporting Jon’s head with his hands. Jon remained where he was, slumped limply forward.

“What’s all this, then?”

“Is everything alright?”

Their voices overlapped as they crowded the already cramped office of the Head Archivist.

“Martin what did you DO?” demanded Tim, stepping closer.

“I, I didn’t do anything!” he stammered, trying to keep their unconscious boss from slipping further down in his chair. “He was just going on about filing like usual and then he suddenly passed out! I don’t know what to do.”

“Calm down,” said Sasha evenly from behind Tim. “There’s no use in us all starting to panic.” She tapped rapidly at her phone for a moment, then lifted it to her ear “Yes, 999? We need an ambulance to the Magnus Institute. My boss just passed out. Yes. No. I don’t know. Hang on a moment, I think he’s coming around –”

JON POV

For a moment the world was more or less as he expected it to be. Blurry. Painful. Martin was there, cupping his cheek with warm, gentle hands.

“Martin,” he sighed, turning his face slightly towards that warmth. For some reason Martin squeaked as he did so, and this prompted a round of high-pitched chatter from somewhere above his head. He jerked a little nearer to reality. This couldn’t be Martin, because Martin was dead. That couldn’t be Tim and Sasha, because they were dead too, and for much longer. This couldn’t be reality because he was dead too, probably, after the absolutely harebrained scheme he and Basira had concocted –

Right. The Plan. It couldn’t have really worked, could it? He forced his eyes to focus, looking up into the anxious faces of –

“Tim? Sahsa?” He couldn’t keep a plaintive note out of his voice. They certainly looked real enough, the three of them staring down at him in various states of concern. Martin looked young and terrified. What could have frightened him so? Martin had always been the braver of the two of them. Tim was frowning, less frightened but still concerned. His face was smooth and free of scars, free of the anger that Jon usually pictured him with. And a woman stood behind them, unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, phone lifted halfway to her ear, staring at him.

“Oh god,” he murmured. Then, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Someone – he assumed Martin, but it might have been Tim – passed him a bin, and he was. Thoroughly. When it was over he was hazily aware that someone had put a cold cloth on the back of his neck, and that Martin was still crouched awkwardly next to him with a hand on his back.

“Right,” said Sasha – and she must be Sasha, even if he hadn’t learned her real voice off of tapes, now that he is here and seeing her it’s quickly becoming hard to picture her looking or sounding any other way – “The ambulance is on its way. Just sit still a minute, Jon. Tim, why don’t you stop hovering awkwardly and go get him a glass of water?”

“I don’t need an ambulance,” he protested faintly, without moving his head from its position between his knees. “I’m alright. I, I just need –” he almost said ‘a statement’ but realized that would probably raise more questions than answers. Besides, taking stock of his body, he wasn’t sure that _was_ what he needed. He certainly felt more human than he had in a long time. “—to lie down.” He finished lamely.

“ _Jon,”_ came Martin’s voice, the same fondly exasperated tone that he always used, but lacking the warm familiarity Jon had become accustomed to. The dissonance him shiver a little, which did absolutely nothing to help his case. “You _passed out mid-sentence._ Is that, uh, normal for you? Because it shouldn’t be! At least let them look you over.”

Jon had to concede that newly-minted head archivist Jonathan Sims, self-professed workaholic he may have been, wasn’t likely to have protested seeing a doctor of some sort after passing out and throwing up in front of his co-workers. And it was important, he reminded himself, to put up a convincing illusion of still being that person.

One of the biggest issues with The Plan (besides the improbability that it would work at all) was, of course, Jonah Magnus. Thankfully, Jon had a great deal of experience with Jonah’s specific brand of omniscience. He was hoping (assuming that any of this was real, assuming that any of this could work, assuming he was correct about how his powers worked) that so long as he did nothing suspicious when the man was likely to be paying attention to him, he could slip under he his radar for a good long while. Watching actions was easier than watching thoughts, and focusing The Eye on one spot for too long was a good way to get one hell of a headache, even for a being as powerful as Jonah. He was certain he would be keeping an eye on Jon, but he was unlikely to be watching closely all that often.

So long as Jon didn’t give him a reason to.

To that end, he sat quietly with his head between his knees and tried not to let himself tear up at Martin’s gentle fussing. Tim returned with a glass of water and drank it, slowly, not making eye contact with any of his assistants. Thankfully this was not out of character for him, which was good because evidently they all intended to remain in his office and stare at him until the ambulance arrived, no matter how uncomfortable it got.

Unfortunately, when EMS arrived at the archives so did the head of the Magnus Institute. Elias lingered in the doorway, watching as the two paramedics started taking Jon’s blood pressure and asking him irritating questions. Jon tried not to make eye contact, but it was nearly impossible to avoid sneaking an anxious glance or two, and every time he did he caught Jonah’s eyes fixed on him.

The medics tried to ask Jon what he had eaten that day, which Jon obviously did not remember but “nothing” seemed like a safe bet. Once they had determined that his vitals were all more or less normal (blood pressure was a touch high, but Jon felt that was warranted under the circumstances) and that there was a solid explanation for why he had passed out, he was given the option of a hospital visit or going home and making an appointment with his primary physician.

“The second one, thank you,” said Jon firmly, having absolutely no intention of doing either thing.

“I’ll call you a cab,” and suddenly Elias was in his office, hand on his shoulder, and Jon _froze,_ like a rabbit in front of a fox. “We must have our _Archivist_ in in full working order, of course.” His voice was a smile with sharp teeth. Jon was pinned to his chair, his heart pounding at a rate that would have had the EMT’s whisking him away in their ambulance.

“Give us a moment, would you,” Elias continued, waving away the three assistants still hovering awkwardly.

“Right, feel better Jon,” said Tim at once with a firm nod, pulling Sasha with him.

“Get some rest!” she sing-songed as she followed him out the door. Only Martin remained, glancing between him and Elias with the vague beginnings of a crease between his eyebrows.

“Er, are you sure you’ll be alright….?” he trailed off awkwardly. Jon wished he could beg him to stay. For a moment, he considered letting his eyes roll back in his head and pretending to faint again. He considered shouting at Martin that of course he wasn’t alright, couldn’t he _tell?_ He considered throwing himself across the room into the safety of Martin’s arms and begging him to run away together. He considered pulling a letter opener out of his desk and stabbing Elias. He considered actually fainting again.

But what he did was take a deep breath, paste on an approximation of Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims, and say, rather more coldly than he meant to, “Of course I’ll be fine Martin. You should really get back to work.”

So Martin left, and then there was only Jon, weak-limbed and shaky and achingly human, and the shark in the room with him.

“Really, Jon,” had his voice always been so… slimy? “Not that I’m not thrilled about your dedication to your job, but perhaps you ought to take it a little easier. We must keep you in full working order.”

“You said that already,” replied Jon, trying not to visibly shudder. This is your boss, who you are trying desperately to impress, and not an ancient dickbag who ended the world whose eyes you are trying to gouge out, he reminded himself again. “I promise I’ll, er, be more careful about remembering to eat in the future.”

“ _Please_ do,” Elias nearly purred. He was still much too far inside Jon’s personal space. “But also, my dear archivist, you may want to be a little more careful about _what_ you eat.”

“What are you talking about.” said Jon flatly. Fear was starting to give way to confusion.

“Now Jon, be honest, how many of those statement did you record today? You know they say that overworking can have similar effects to undereating.”

“They… do?” said Jon slowly. Was this why Elias sounded so unbearably smug? Did he think Jon was ill because he overdid it on statements?

“So just keep that in mind Jon,” continued Elias without responding, “start slow and I’m sure you’ll be able to work up to it.” He finished with a razor-sharp smile. Had Elias really been this unbearably obvious the entire time? He might as well be holding up a sign that said ‘I’m evil and I’m grooming you to bring about the end of the world!’

“Christ,” Jon swore under his breath. No wonder people were always calling him oblivious.

“What was that?” Elias asked, cheerful now that he had finished monologuing.

“Nothing. I’ll certainly be more careful to avoid overworking in the future.” He was once again glad that stiff formality was all that anyone would expect from him at this stage. “If it’s quite alright, I’d like to go home now.”

“Of course, of course,” crooned Jonah Magnus, with another lipless smile. “I believe Martin has called you a cab already. You’d better go let him walk you out to it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon figures out when exactly he is, goes home, and has a breakdown.

“I called you a cab,” said Martin, entering his office with a very soft knock on the door frame. “I know Elias said he would call you one, but, well, I figured you’d probably rather leave as soon as possible.”

“Yes, yes, thank you Martin,” Jon waved his concern away, still trying to pick up his shattered bearings after Jonah left his office. Martin looked taken aback, and he hurried to correct himself.

“I mean, of course, I appreciate it. You didn’t have to do that, I could have called a cab… myself?” With every word out of Jon’s mouth, Martin’s face grew stranger.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright, Jon? I mean, obviously you’re not feeling well! It’s just that, er, you don’t usually…. say thank you?” Martin cringed, “Not that I think you’re … that came out wrong. I just meant it was, well, out of character for you?”

“Really?” now it was Jon’s turn to be taken aback. It was true, social niceties like gratitude and apologies weren’t usually at the front of his mind. But he usually did alright. Sure, it got worse when he was stressed and this job had been terribly stressful, even this early on. But for Martin to think a simple ‘thank you’ desperately out of character? Where on earth had his head been?

“Well, I’m no worse than I was twenty minutes ago,” was what he settled on saying, “and I do appreciate it, Martin. I am… quite tired. Do you think it’s here yet?”

“It ought to be by now, that’s why I came to tell you.” Martin hovered, awkwardly, as Jon rose slowly from his chair. Ah, there was the headache again. “Let me walk you upstairs.”

He allowed Martin to take his elbow and lead him up the stairs, past the harried looking receptionist whose name he couldn’t quite remember, and out to the curb where it appeared the cab had not yet arrived. They stood quietly in the warm afternoon air, waiting. Martin seemed loathe to leave him alone, and Jon made no move to dismiss him, although he had to keep reminding himself not to lean in to Martin the way he wanted to.

He desperately wished for a cigarette – though of course his shirt pockets produced nothing helpful, since the Jon of this time was well into quitting. He patted through his trousers and jacket anyway, hoping that one of them would at least produce something to do with his hands other than try to thread his fingers through Martin’s. That particular embarrassment would probably kill them both.

The almost comfortable silence was broken by Martin sudden shout of, “Die!” and the crash of his foot dramatically down onto the ground. If Jon hadn’t been so utterly exhausted he might have jumped. As it was, he drew a panicked breath inward and looked around wildly for what might have prompted such a response.

“Sorry,” said Martin a little sheepishly after a moment. “It was just, well, you know. Another worm.”

“A.. a worm?” for a moment Jon was confused. Then, “ah yes, Prentiss. Wait. Prentiss? Is she _here?”_

“I certainly hope not!” cried Martin, taking his own turn to look about frantically, as though the mere mention of her name might act as a summons. “On today of all days – it’s been weeks!”

“Ah yes,” said Jon. “Weeks since…?”

Martin stared at Jon like he had grown a second head. “Since I’ve been… staying at the archives after Prentiss trapped me in my flat? Have you really been paying that little attention?” This was good -- now he had a solid sense of when he was, without having to ask any awkward questions. Martin looked hurt, though, and oh dear, that wouldn’t do at all.

“I – of course! I’m sorry, Martin,” he stuttered. “I’m just tired, I don’t know where my head’s at.” Now Martin looked worried, which wasn’t what he’d meant to accomplish either.

“So you don’t remember how long it’s been, _and_ you’re apologizing? Are you sure I shouldn’t tell this cab to take you straight to the hospital?” His voice was light, half teasing, but his forehead had the wrinkle that meant he was almost certain to be actually considering it.

“ _Martin._ You will do absolutely no such thing. I just… I just need to eat something and get a good night’s sleep.” Besides the fact that there was no chance of doctors being able to fix whatever was wrong with him, Jon didn’t think he could take being in a hospital right now. The last few years hadn’t exactly left him with fond memories of the idea.

“If you’re sure,” said Martin slowly, still looking at him far too intensely for Jon’s comfort. “Just… take care of yourself, alright?”

“I will,” responded Jon, his voice painfully soft and far too sincere. Thankfully the cab arrived before Martin could read too much more into his actions, and he allowed himself to be bundled into it, making certain that the cabbie knew to take him to his _flat,_ no matter what Martin might imply. As they drove away he caught a glimpse of Martin in the rearview mirror, still standing on the curb in front of the institute, watching.

Just walking into his flat set his teeth on edge. He felt like just around the corner something could be lurking, and he would never know because he wasn’t sure what was supposed to be there in the first place. He stood for a long minute, lost, just inside the door. He wanted nothing more than to throw down his bag and collapse into bed, but he couldn’t remember which door lead to his bedroom so he couldn’t know for sure that none of these doors lead to Somewhere Else and he couldn’t _Know_ because when he tried the headache almost made him black out, so he ended up clutching his briefcase to his chest and slowly sliding down the closed front door to huddle over it, breathing hard.

After who knew how long of this, he finally managed to stand up and drag himself over to the sofa, throwing himself face-first onto it. The doors could wait until the morning. Everything could wait until the morning.

Morning Jon understood this sentiment, but when he woke up dizzy and queasy, with an awful taste in his mouth, he really wished that past him had at least had the decency to drink some water and brush his teeth before passing out. Maybe thrown on a t-shirt or something, or at least taken off the slacks and sweater vest that past-him had been wearing.

His flat was less terrifying after sleeping for a solid ten hours, but it still looked like it belonged to a stranger. It took him nearly ten minutes of half-awake fumbling through his kitchen cupboards to even find the necessary components for a cup of tea. As it steeped, in a chipped mug he was fairly certain he hadn’t seen since uni, he finally made it to the bathroom for some attempt at personal hygiene. Unfortunately, this brought him face to face with his bathroom mirror.

A human face stared back at him. Smooth, unscarred beyond the small acne marks around his chin, souvenirs from teenage years and early adulthood. His hair hung greasy and limp around his face, and the bags under his eyes were… honestly better than the last time he’d looked into a mirror though that didn’t say much.

It looked like a stranger’s face. It looked like the version of himself he had finally wrenched away from, the one he’d convinced himself he’d never be again. Its hard to hang on to the delusion of humanity when you are literally omnipotent. He looked like a person again, and it terrified him. A strange animal sound ripped from the back of his throat and it took him three more to realize they were sobs, keening and tearless.

He stayed there for some amount of time, bent over the sink, trembling. By the time he managed to brush his teeth and make his unsteady way back to the tiny kitchen his tea had gone cold and oversteeped. He drank it anyway, leaning against the fridge and counting his breaths, worrying a thread hanging off his cuff in a slow, repetitive motion. 

He needed a plan. They had had a plan, he and Basira, he was certain of it. But everything from right at the end was a little muddled. When he tried to focus on the specifics the headache lying in wait behind his eyes roared screeching back to life. At the time he hadn’t realized just how different his thought processes were, neurons growing and changing, knowledge flowing into his head and reshaping it. He couldn’t comprehend it now, not in the same way and the memories he could access were scrambled and uncertain.

He should call Basira. He hadn’t needed to memorize her phone number, before. Or maybe he had tried, but regardless, he didn’t know it now. Thankfully, it was nearly 7:30 in the morning now, a respectable time to be making his way to the archives, and there would be resources there for contacting someone based on a name alone.

Maybe he would stop for breakfast on the way there. Past him hadn’t had much by the way of food in his flat. Hopefully finding something to eat would quiet the twisting nausea and pain that had dogged his every step in this new reality so far.

Jon wasn’t particularly hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to get a handle on Jon's internal monologue before the plot really kicks in.

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll this shit ran away from me.
> 
> Title from The Lord of the Rings
> 
> "From the ashes a fire shall be woken/ a light from the shadows shall spring/ renewed will be blade that was broken/ the crownless, again, shall be king"


End file.
